by Meg Cabot
Well, I guess she can start training for that hike with Tad. They do make a cute couple. It’s true they have even less in common than he and I do. I can’t imagine Muffy on the Appalachian Trail. How is she going to make her hair all big like that without a blow dryer? And I can’t see Tad ever developing an interest in china patterns.
But people can change.
Someone always benefits from murder. That’s what Cooper said, while standing not very far from where I’m standing now. Always.
And, just like that, it hits me. I suppose it was there all along, just simmering on the edge of my subconsciousness, like how I really felt about Tad all along. But I kept pushing it away, for whatever reason…probably because it just wasn’t convenient for me to deal with.
This time, however, I let it in.
And it stays.
And I know I have to deal with it.
Now.
I turn on my heel.
Only instead of turning left, toward Waverly and home, I turn right, toward Owen’s building, and that Ryder truck. I keep walking, straight into the building where Pam is staying. I walk right up to the doorman, and ask him to buzz Owen’s apartment.
“Whom may I say is calling?” he asks. He’s one of Rosetti’s men, trying hard to make a good impression—not easy, with a toothpick in his mouth.
“Tell her it’s Heather,” I say.
“Sure,” he says. A second later, when Pam picks up the intercom phone, he does just that. Pam, sounding surprised, tells him to let me up.
I don’t know why I do what I do next. All I know is that I’ve begun to shake. Not with fear.
With anger.
All I can think about is that stupid rag doll sweatshirt she’d been wearing…the one with the black rag doll and the white rag doll holding hands.
It’s weird what you think about when your boss’s life is flashing before your eyes.
I march toward the elevator. Owen’s building—which he happened to share with President Allington and his wife—is nothing like Fischer Hall. It’s elegant, all marble and brass and quiet—absolutely quiet—this time of the evening. There is no one else in the elevator with me. I can’t even hear the GSC rally in the car. My ride to the sixth floor, where Owen lived, is silent until the bell rings—ding!—to indicate our arrival—and the doors slide back.
Then I step out into the hallway and go to apartment 6–J. Owen’s apartment.
Pam has the door open before I even knock.
“Heather!” she says, with a smile. She’s changed out of the black suit she’d been wearing at the memorial service. And, yes, she’s back in the rag doll sweatshirt. Like some sweatshirt showing interracial rag dolls holding hands is supposed to bring harmony to the universe.
“What a surprise!” she cries. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did you stop by to check up on me? I suppose because of that fracas at the memorial service. Wasn’t that horrible? I couldn’t believe that happened. Please, won’t you come in?”
I follow her inside the apartment. Just as I had suspected, it’s gone. All of it. The china, I mean. Every last speck of the blue and white patterned china Owen had had on display in the hutch in the dining room is missing.
So is the hutch it was sitting on.
“This is just so sweet of you,” Pam goes on. “Owen always did say the nicest things about you—how thoughtful and kind you were to the students. I see it extends beyond your professional life, as well. But, please, you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or herbal tea? It’s no trouble. I was just about to make some for myself.”
I turn to face her. I see that Garfield is curled up on the couch, sleeping. Pam had clearly been sitting next to him. The television is on, and the remote lays next to the cat. She’d been watching Entertainment Tonight.
“Where is it?” I ask her. My voice is hoarse. I have no idea why.
She looks at me blankly. “Where is what, dear?”
“You know what,” I say. “Is it in that truck downstairs?”
She still looks blank—but a tinge of color appears in each of her cheeks. “I…I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Heather.”
“The china,” I say. “The wedding china Owen got in the divorce settlement. The wedding china you killed him for. Where is it?”
21
* * *
Friday’s guy’s not gonna call
Saturday’s guy’s not into girls at all
But Sunday’s guy is the worst of all
He’s glued to the set and that dang football
“Guys of the Week”
Written by Heather Wells
* * *
“Just give me the keys,” I say, holding out my hand.
For a minute Pam just looks at me with a very surprised expression on her face. Then she throws back her head and laughs.
“Oh…you!” she says, reaching out to give me a little push. “Owen always said you were a kidder. In fact, he said you spent so much time kidding around, sometimes he worried about you getting the job done.”
Now that—as opposed to the typing thing—I believe Owen actually said.
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “And you know it. Give me the keys, Pam. I’m not letting you get away with this. And you know the cops aren’t going to, either. You can’t just pack up a murder victim’s stuff and drive away with it. I’m sure there’s some kind of protocol that has to be followed—”
Pam stops laughing. But she’s still smiling. There’s something a little stiff about the smile—like she’s turned into a jack-o’-lantern.
Or Muffy Fowler.
“Protocol,” she repeats, with a humorless little chuckle. “Now you’re starting to sound just like Owen.”
“Look, Pam,” I say. I can’t believe it took me so long to notice, but this lady is nuttier than a slice of Fischer Hall coffee cake.
I know I’m going to need to tread carefully here. But I’m not particularly worried, because I know where the murder weapon is—in an evidence locker in the DA’s office downtown. I’m safe. There’s nothing she can do to me. I suppose she can try to take a swing at me, but I’m at least ten years younger, and twenty pounds lighter. I could easily take her in a fight, if it comes to that. I’m actually longing for her to take a swing at me.
It’s true I didn’t like Owen all that much.
But I liked walking into my office and finding his dead body even less. And nothing would give me more pleasure than punching the person who is responsible for making me go through all that.
“Don’t play with me,” I say. “I know you killed him. I know you didn’t get in today, like you pretended. I know you were actually here yesterday. You were spotted in the chess circle across the street, you know.”
Pam stares at me, her lips slightly parted. She’s still smiling, though. “That…that’s just baloney,” she says.
Seriously. Baloney. That’s what she said. Not bullshit. Baloney. Priceless.
“I know you planted that gun on Sebastian Blumenthal,” I go on. “Just like I know you and Owen were fighting over your wedding china. Owen told me all about it. He wanted it. God knows why. Probably because you did, and he wanted to punish you for divorcing him, and because he was completely lacking in imagination, it was the only way he could think to get back at you. I don’t know when you got to town, but I can’t imagine it will be too hard for the police to figure it out. What did you do, rent the truck and drive here? Then bide your time until you found Owen alone, then blew his head off? Is that how it went?”
Pam is shaking her head slowly, her graying mom haircut still so carefully styled from the memorial service that it doesn’t move an inch.
“You,” she says, still smiling, “are a very creative person. It must be your background in show business.”
“That’s called premeditation, you know, Pam,” I inform her. “And it’s probably going to get you life in prison. And the part where you planted the murd
er weapon on an innocent person? That’s going to get you life without parole.”
Pam is still shaking her head. But when I get to the part about how she planted the gun on Sebastian, she stops shaking her head, and just stares at me. The weird part is, she’s still smiling.
But the smile doesn’t go all the way up to her eyes. It’s like her lips are just frozen that way.
“I can’t believe,” she says, through that cold, creepy smile, “you’re on his side.”
I stare at her. “Whose side?”
“You know whose,” she says. “Owen’s. You worked with him. Every day—in the same office! You saw what he was like. Like a robot, with his agendas and itineraries and appointment calendars. The man was inhuman!”
I blink at her. The smile is finally gone. The bright spots of color on either of her cheeks have spread, and now her whole face is red. Her eyes—once a soft hazel—are beginning to glitter with a sort of manic intensity I’m not sure I like. She doesn’t look like a gentle potter anymore. She looks a little psycho, if you ask me.
I take a step backward. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Uh,” I say. “You’re the one who married him.”
“Yes, I married him,” Pam spits. “I met him in college, back when I was an art major, a real wild child, into drugs and partying and sexual experimentation, and he was my resident assistant, and straight as an arrow, and I felt like I needed a little of that to calm me down. What I didn’t need, however, was to be smothered! To be creatively stifled for twenty years! Except that that’s what happened…until I finally got the guts to leave him. And, yes, you’re right—he did insist on taking the china—my beautiful china. Not because he cared about it. But because he knew I loved it. To punish me for leaving him! Well, I got it in the end, didn’t I?”
But I’m already shaking my head.
“No,” I say. “No, you won’t. Because it’s wrong, and you know it, Pam. I’m not letting you take it. Give me the keys.”
She’s weeping openly now, tears spilling out of those hazel eyes, and dropping down onto the fabric aprons the rag dolls are wearing.
“I…I…” is all she seems able to say.
I hold out my hand. “Come on, Pam,” I say, in my most soothing tone. “Give me the keys. I’m sure we can work something out with the DA. Battered wife syndrome, or something. Maybe they can send you to the same place they sent Martha Stewart. She got to do a lot of crafts in there. You could still do your pottery.”
Pam lets out a sigh, and turns toward a chest of drawers.
“That’s it,” I say encouragingly, speaking to her in the same gentle but firm tone I use with the anorexics we get periodically down in the office, and whom I have to urge to eat the special, highly caloric muffins the nutritionists send over to fatten them up enough for what we’re saying to make some sort of sense to their vitamin-deprived little brains. “You’re doing the right thing—”
But when Pam turns around, I see to my dismay that it’s not a set of keys she’s holding in her hand.
It’s a handgun.
And she’s pointing it right at me.
“You didn’t really think,” she says—and I see, with a lurch of my entrails, that the smile is back—“that I only had the one gun, did you, Heather? I’m a country girl, you know. I grew up around guns. I know how to use them—even if I think they’re entirely too easy to procure for most people.”
I can’t believe this. What a phony she is! Her sweatshirt is totally lying! She doesn’t believe in interracial harmony at all!
Well, okay, maybe she does.
But she doesn’t seem to have a problem with killing people. Including completely innocent assistant residence hall directors.
“Pam,” I say, holding up both my hands. “You do not want to do this.”
“Actually,” Pam says, taking a step toward me. “I really do. Because by the time anyone finds your body, I’ll be long gone. So killing you really isn’t a problem for me.”
I take an instinctive step back. But for every step I take away from her, Pam takes another one forward. I’m looking around, wondering frantically what on earth I’m going to do. Owen kept his apartment as fastidiously neat as he kept his office. Unlike my own place, there are no stray objects lying randomly around that I can pick up and try to throw at my would-be assassin—no whimsical lamp shaped like a mermaid, purchased at the local flea market for a song, that would make a handy missile. No terrariums filled with sea-shells that I can heave in her direction…
Not that I’d be likely to hit her. But it’s better than nothing.
The worst thing is, no one even knows I’m here, except for the moron with the toothpick at the desk downstairs. And he doesn’t even work for the college. He works for Rosetti, and is about as likely to notice the sound of a gunshot upstairs as he is likely to notice that his multiple gold neck chains clashed with his many bracelets.
I’m basically a dead woman.
And for what? For Owen.
And I didn’t even like him!
Still, I have to try.
“This isn’t Iowa, Pam,” I inform her. “Someone’s going to hear a gun go off, and call the cops.”
“I’m from Illinois,” Pam says. “And already thought of that.”
And she reaches down, picks up the phone that’s sitting next to the couch I’ve bumped into (I’ve backed up as far as I can go), and dials 911.
“Hello, operator?” she says, in a breathless, panicky voice quite unlike her own, when someone on the other end picks up. “Send the police right away! I’m calling from apartment six–J at twenty-one Washington Square West. Former teen pop sensation Heather Wells has gone crazy and broken into my apartment and is trying to kill me! She’s got a gun! Ah!”
Then she hangs up.
I stare at her in total astonishment.
“That,” I say, “was a big mistake.”
Pam shrugs. “This is New York City,” she says. “Do you know how long it’s going to take them to get here? By the time they do, I’ll be long gone. And you’ll have bled to death.”
Pam obviously doesn’t realize what’s happening in the park approximately a hundred yards from the entrance to her ex-husband’s apartment building.
And how many cops are out there as a consequence.
On the other hand, it won’t matter if two dozen cops storm apartment 6–J in the next twenty seconds if she manages to put a bullet in my brain the way she did Owen’s.
Which is exactly what I realize she’s about to do when she raises the pistol she’s holding and points it at my head.
“Good-bye, Heather,” she says. “Owen was right about you, you know. You really aren’t that good of an administrator.”
Owen said that? Geez! Talk about ungrateful! And I was really helpful when he first started, showing him the ropes and the best place to get a bagel (outside of the caf, of course), and everything. And he said I wasn’t a good administrator? What was he even talking about? Has he seen the binders I created at the reception desk, making the kids responsible for keeping their own time sheets, so I don’t have to bother with it? And what about my innovative way of getting the student workers to pay attention to what’s going on in and around the building, the Fischer Hall Newsletter? Was Owen completely unaware of the fact that Simon Hague, over in Wasser Hall, stole my idea, and invented his own student worker newsletter, and even had the nerve to call it the Wasser Hall Newsletter?
Well? Was he?
But I don’t have a chance to process how I feel about this betrayal, because I’m busy ducking the bullet Owen’s ex-wife has just fired at me. Ducking and, I’d like to add, diving over the side of the couch and grabbing the one thing in the apartment I think might actually give me half a chance to survive the next two minutes until the boys (and girls) in blue can get up here and save my cellulite-ridden butt.
And that’s Garfield.
Who isn’t too happy about being snatched from his res
ting place on the sofa cushion, by the way.
But then, the sound of a handgun going off at close proximity hadn’t made him particularly happy, either.
Snarling and snapping, the great big orange tabby is doing his best to get away from me. But I have him by the scruff of his neck with one hand, his sizable belly with the other. His unsheathed and flailing claws are, fortunately, facing away from me. So there’s virtually no way he can escape.
But no one’s told him that. He’s twenty-five pounds or so of pure enraged muscle. And he’s taking it out on me. All I can taste and smell for a few seconds is fur and gunpowder, especially when I practically land on him.
But I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.
Pam is staring confusedly at the spot in which I’d been standing. Blinking, she turns, and stares at the place to which I’ve leaped over the couch.
When she sees what I’m holding, her eyes widen.
“That’s right,” I say. My voice sounds oddly muted. That’s because the crack of the pistol had been so loud, everything in relation now sounds completely muffled, including the protests from the creature I’m holding, like the city after a record snowfall. “I’ve got Garfield. Come any closer, Pam, and I swear, the cat gets it.”
The smile that had been playing across Pam’s face freezes. Her upper lip begins to twitch.
“You’re…you’re bl-bluffing,” she stammers.
“Try me,” I say. The stupid cat still won’t quit struggling. But over my dead body am I letting go of him. Literally. “Pull that trigger again, and yeah, you might hit me. But I’ll still have time to snap his neck before I go. I swear I’ll do it. I love animals—but not this one.”
And I do mean that. Especially as Owen’s cat’s fangs sink into my wrist. Ow! Stupid cat! Wasn’t I the one who brought Pam over here to make sure he got his stupid pills? Talk about ungrateful! Like pet, like owner.
